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THREE
The pills tookthe edge off the pain in Harry’s ankle, but they made him feel a little nauseous. He tried to ignore it. The nausea, the pain, the unusual mix of tension and ease with which he sat next to Asher.
Every fibre of Harry’s body was against the idea of trusting him. Not just Asher, but trusting anyone. Especially Asher. But for a reason he couldn’t explain, he felt comfortable with him.
Maybe it was because they were so similar.
They had vastly different upbringings, from the little Harry knew of Asher. But now as grown men, as assassins, they were alone, trained to be invisible, trained to kill, trained to never look back.
There was a solidarity in that.
When Harry had asked Asher what he really needed him for, what he’d saved his life for, Asher hadn’t answered.
He’d just sat there, as casual as if they were going for a leisurely evening drive. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting over his crotch, almost between his legs.
Harry hated how hot that was. He hated Asher for being so relaxed, so confident.
Maybe it was easy to be that way when he was the one with all the information. He was the one with the plan, and Harry was just... doing what he was told?
He took a phone out of his backpack, causing Asher to cast him a wild look. “It’s not traceable,” Harry said. Like he would be that stupid. “This will ping my location as Paris. No matter where I am.” He began to type out a message, then thought better of it. It’d be best if they thought he was dead. Although the four dead bodies in his apartment might tell them otherwise. But every hour, every mile they gained was a bonus.
Would they know he and Asher were working together?
All Harry had was questions.
“I need you to tell me what you know,” Harry said.
“I know you were Australian Specialist Response Group. Highly trained operatives for the Australian Special Forces,” Asher replied. “You were too good at your job and your particular skill set was put to better use. At the age of twenty-five, you were put into the field in Europe as an operative for the Australian government.”
Christ.
“Not what you know about me,” he shot back. Harry didn’t even want to know how Asher had intel on him. “About this. About why you saved my ass and who you think wants us dead. And how you know any-fucking-thing about me.”
Asher smiled, and good fucking lord, Harry hated him. “I want to put a gun to your head,” Harry mumbled. “So fucking bad.”
And what did Asher do? He laughed.
Harry pulled his pistol. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in you.”
Asher didn’t even flinch. In fact, his smile became a smirk. Unbothered. Unbelievable. He changed lanes and took the exit ramp. “We need fuel.”
The tank was below a quarter. They’d been driving a while, but still. “Jesus. Why didn’t you fill it?”
Asher cut him a glare. “Because I was too busy saving your ass. Now put your gun away or you’ll scare the locals. And give me some cash,” Asher said as the petrol station came into view. He drove up to a bowser, took the money, and pulled a cap on his head. “And stay in the car.”
Harry did a quick recon. It was getting dark now. Traffic was constant with workers heading home. The car at the next bowser was a woman with two kids in the backseat, the van at the end bowser was being refuelled by a man in his sixties, at least.
Harry kept his pistol in his hand down between his knees.
He also checked the glove box and centre console while Asher went inside to pay. He didn’t know what he was looking for or expecting to find, but both were empty.
The next vehicle to pull up was a farm truck towing a horse trailer. It blocked half his view of the store, of Asher.
Fuck.
The driver, a man wearing farm clothes, got out and went to the petrol bowser and the passenger, a teen boy, went to check on the horses. Harry could see two horses in the trailer, but not much else.
Fuck, fuck.
